


Oil and Leather

by Mirabai0821



Series: Agony and Ecstasy [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ASMR reactions, Aftercare, BDSM, Boot Worship, Cunnilingus, D/s relationship, Dirty Talk, F/M, Humiliation, Knifeplay, Mentions of Rope Bondage, Mentions of Sex Toys, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, Switching, mentions of anal sex, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:58:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirabai0821/pseuds/Mirabai0821
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evelyn gets a new pair of boots. Cullen has feelings about this. <i>A lot of feelings.</i> Evelyn lets him explore those feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oil and Leather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Domina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domina/gifts).



> I was summoned.  
> I heeded.  
> This happened.
> 
> This is far far far away from my usual work, even my pwp. But I was just thinking the other day I wanted a kinky ass pwp so here we are.

  
  


The click of her boots makes his teeth itch, makes the back of his head and neck tingle with a pleasant prickling he can’t seem to describe.

 

The steady clipping noise of her heels hitting the flagstones acts like a pull--a fishing hook tethered to his gut.

 

As she walks, 

 

It pulls.

 

And he is reeled in.

 

Blessed Maker take him, she’s a pacer too. Boot heels click click  _ clicking _ as she travels the length of the war table, her eyes all seeing, capturing everything under her gaze. Nothing escapes her, never ever does, how he thought he ever could seems so foolish in retrospect. 

 

He was foolish, in retrospect, and she has graciously given him new wisdom.

 

She picks apart his strategies, offering challenge and counterpoint. He defends his choices and well it seems as she blesses him with a light smile and an even bigger boon.

 

“Well done Commander, I am impressed.”

 

He feels sunlight birth in his chest, a pleasant warmth coursing through him at her praise. She is rarely complimentary--giving it only when it is earnestly earned. Her words fall like jewels from her lips and he stands under her, palms up and open to catch them. 

 

Cullen rules his face, tempering it against the dopey grin that might shatter it. “Thank you.” 

 

She clicks away, body swaying like a pendulum, leaving him hypnotized and barely aware of the scribbled note she left in his hand.

 

_ Come upstairs for your reward. _

 

**

 

She does not rise from her chaise to greet him as he arrives, acknowledging him only with a slashing cut of her all-seeing eyes, their amber warmth glittering in warm firelight. There is a book in her hands, an open bottle of wine, and a full glass on the table next to her and…

 

He feels a fist in gut, a hand yanking on his insides, Cullen is brought nearly to his knees in lust as he spies the last object on her side table.

 

The gilt and jeweled hilt of her favorite dagger.

 

It is useless, he knows, worn blunt by careful craftsmanship, this dagger couldn’t even cut open a letter. Tendrils of icy smoke curl around the blade and his knees weaken, remembering how it felt to have her press the blade to his chest, the scores they left on him, how he carried the welts pridefully for days.

 

He bites back a heavy groan even as his ardor is made plainly known by the bulge forming in his pants. 

 

She ignores him, flipping idly through her book even as he knows her every sense is cued to him as his is to hers.

 

“Undress.”

 

Her voice is casual in its command, but an order given is an order obeyed. Always and quickly.

 

Once he’s done, she finally graces him with a glance, peeking over the hedge of her book,  _ leering _ at him as she uncrosses and recrosses her legs, the leather of her boots crackling as she shifts..

 

A flush of embarrassment tinges his neck and ears pink, Cullen moves his hands to his crotch, large palms covering up his growing erection.

 

Her brown skin knits between her eyes, a crinkle of displeasure. She makes it known. “Who told you to cover yourself?” 

 

His hands fall away quickly, semi-hardness still growing, quicker now under her eyes. They feel like nails, digging red furrows in his skin down to his core, his soul. Her eyes scratch his skin away, his flesh and blood and bone. He is an exposed nerve, raw and aching and had he the permission to gaze back into her eyes he would see similar expression.

 

But he is a Good and Worthy Soldier, his eyes find a spot in the carpet and stay there.

 

“Good soldier.” She praises, and a deep satisfied sigh is her reward. “You may approach.”

 

From his position at the top of the stairs he approaches her chaise, eyes averted, stopping a respectful distance from her.

 

She sighs and shifts and they’ve played long enough to know what that means. 

 

Cullen drops to his knees before her, heaving another content sigh as he rests his head against her clothed thigh.

 

They repose like this for a few moments, he breathes, he relaxes, his air flavored with the scent of new and unbroken leather and her--all flowers and spice and citrus and woman.

 

“Did you sleep well?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“No nightmares?”

 

She feels him shake his head against her thigh and compulsion takes her hand from her book and places it on his head of golden curls. She is allowed this indulgence she knows, but is still reluctant to give it.  Affection like this is a reward and never to be given idly, no matter her desires. Still, she reasons that he has done well today, twining her fingers in his hair, swallowing down the guilt she feels as contentment takes it place in her heart.

 

He trusts her and she must  _ never  _ abuse that--even with something so small. 

 

She would cut off her hand before it offended him, before she would let her desires supercede his needs.

 

Maker’s blessing, he  _ leans _ into her hand, breath hitching as her nails lightly scratch his scalp. In the silence they are content.

 

“Are comfortable like this? Do you hurt?” She asks after a time. He’s not old, not by any stretch of imagination, but their bodies both have borne injury that make simple things difficult.

 

“No.” He’s comfortable like this, it feels natural almost. He is at her knee and on his.

 

Until she floors him.

 

“Do you want to hurt?”

 

His heart stutters and any words freeze, congealing in his throat. All at once Cullen is assaulted by beautiful memory. Of bound wrists and splayed legs, of his rigid cock red and angry at being denied even as her oil slicked hands work him, dangling him over the edge of bliss and never. letting. go.

 

He topples under his own weight, pushed forward into nothing as she grins at him, both hands planted firmly yet tenderly on his thighs.

 

His cries sink into the stones and his body thrums with long continuous pulses as he paints his own chest and stomach with his seed. After an eternity, he returns to reality, loosed and loved, her arms wrapped around him, her lips in his hair as she holds and holds and holds.

 

“I love you,” she repeats until they both fall asleep.

 

Her question triggers the memory that staggers him, stops up his tongue and most of his thoughts. Those tender fingers in his hair morph to claws and Cullen is finally made aware of his error.

 

“I asked you a question. To be answered immediately and not on your sweet damn time.”

 

He is dulled to all sensation but the stretch in his neck and the pull against his scalp, he swallows a moan, the thick apple in his throat bobbing. 

 

“Look at me,” She corrects and he lifts his gaze from the slight snarl in her full lips the color of date flesh to her eyes. “You still have not answered my question.”

 

And he still doesn’t. His mistake turns into a calculated one, he knows the punishment for insubordination. He’s counting on it.

 

She tests him further, holding him cruelly by the hair, his neck open and exposed for arrows or teeth or….

 

Book abandoned, her free hand grasps the enchanted knife. She flicks its iced blade up and down the apple in his throat ready to peel it if he continues this misconduct.

 

“Color?” She asks and this question he knows better than to deny answering.

 

Their lives together, like this, are ordered by rules, well defined and well negotiated. When she asks for a color he  _ must _ provide one of three.

 

Yellow: the color of flowers in sunlight, the color of her laugh, the color of the gold she says is in his eyes.  Yellow means all is well.

 

Blue: the color of liquid harmonies that poisoned him for so long. The color of his melancholy when she is away from him. Blue is the color of caution.

 

Red: the color of the lyrium that laces so many of his fallen brethren’s veins. The color of his fear, and anger and pain. Red ends everything.

 

“Yellow.” He breathes, swallowing again, purposefully scraping his skin against the blade, the cold teasing gooseflesh from him, making his cock jerk as it stands fully erect in his lap.

 

She’s heard him, loud and clear, but gives no acknowledgment. “Drill position,” she snaps, releasing him with a cruel flick of her wrist. He obeys.

 

He starts by folding the top half of his body to the floor, exactly like a man kowtowing to a goddess. He parts his thighs just wide enough to slightly stretch the muscles, and his arms rest at either side of his head, palms down, like the ready position for a pushup.

 

He is supposed to remain perfectly still and silent but even after months of training, he cannot suppress the  _ shiver _ that trembles him. 

 

She’s done  _ so many _ things to him like this.

 

“You’re too easy pup, your face, gives everything away. I can read you like that damn book, your face is so easy, like glass. Totally transparent. Tell me, what were you thinking so hard about that you couldn’t answer me?”

 

She’s serious, her casual crossed legs have given way to both feet on the floor, one tapping impatiently. The click is muted by the scruffy shaggy pile of the carpet but he’s convinced the sound is vibrating in his bones because he can still hear it. His embarrassed red color is of course flushing his face, which she can’t see with his forehead pressed reverently into the floor, but it shows nicely up the column of his throat, splotching too his back.

 

He mumbles. She corrects him.

 

“Speak plainly mushmouth! Or shall we repeat the lesson on diction?”

 

Maker’s blood! He remembers that lesson, he remembers  _ all _ his lessons because that is the point of one, to instruct and to be remembered. The toy cock she fit inside him, while in this very position no less, stretched him to the barest edge of a burn, coupled with a heated oil that warmed his pucker as she fucked him with it. Requiring he clearly recite selected passages from the Chant of Light, unbroken by any shudders or whimpers or moans, the utterance of which earned him an empty body and neglected cock and forcing him to start all over again from the beginning. 

 

By the time he was finally successful, he thought he died when she allowed him to come.

 

“The time you,” he stopped, embarrassment thickening his words again before barreling forward. “The time you made me come without touching me.”

 

Her tapping toe stopped. “Tell me more.”

 

“Please.”

 

She chuckles to hide the groan in her throat. Maker take him but he is so pretty when he begs. “Begging suits you, but I did not ask for it. Tell me more, tell me everything m’chere. I’d know your mind, hide nothing from me. Tell me  _ more. _ ”

 

“I enjoyed it,” he admits, “I enjoyed what you did to me.”

 

“You say that like you are shamed, m’chere. Never be shamed of your pleasure. Never be shamed of how much of a slut you were with my toy inside of you. Never be shamed of how loud you moaned when I fucked you like that, your ass in the air, your cock dripping as I stretched you wide and full. Your shame ain’t yours, pup, it’s mine, just like the rest of you. _Give it to me_.”

 

It isn’t immediate, it never is, her words don’t release the burden from him like her arrow loosed from her bow. It’s gradual, it has always been gradual. Gradually she has dismantled him piece by broken, jagged, glassy piece. She keeps the sharp bits, and uses the rest to reassemble him whole.

 

He gives her his fear, his shame, his anger, his doubt, and his worth.

 

He gives her his  _ trust _ .

 

Maker, how she  _ holds _ it.

 

His words burst forth as he describes in detail how  _ good _ he feels when she does things to him. A long long lists of debaucheries he enjoys. She lets him speak, body warming at all the pleasant memories, cataloguing the ones that garner a specific reaction from him as he recalls. Like how he tries to rut his hips when he recounts when he was made to wear an elaborately knotted rope structure under his clothing for a day. How the knots dug into his thighs when he walked, how her best knot tickled the tender stripe of skin between his cock and his hole, and how the knotted ring around his balls made it impossible to come when he so desperately needed it.

 

He enjoyed that.

 

She will do it for him again.

 

But only if he earns it.

 

The satisfaction of her pride is just as arousing as his arousal is. She crosses her legs again at the calves drawing one well muscled leg against the other, the leather making a slight crackling sound as her boots glide against one another. Her cunt is on fire, it aches, and she is well within her rights to take her pleasure listening to him recount his, but as always, it is never about her.

 

“Thank me, pup. Clearly you’ve enjoyed yourself by the stimulation of your mere memory. Thank me for the memory.”

 

He responds quickly and eagerly. “Thank you.”

 

Cullen smiles to himself, hiding it though, knowing that if he could look up he would see an eyebrow cocked in exasperation. He knows he has not been disobedient, but he also knows there is such a thing as not being obedient  _ enough. _

 

“That all you got, pup?!” 

 

“Thank you,  _ serah _ .”

 

She hisses, draws her bottom lip between her teeth. For his sake, she’ll play it off like an annoyance but they both know what it does to her when he calls her by her title.

 

Her yawn is loud and exaggerated, spiced at the edges with yet another moan she smothers in salt. “Since you insist on being lippy, thank me,  _ with your mouth _ .”

 

A brown leather rounded toe is pushed close to his face. An implicit and non-verbal order given is  _ still _ one to be obeyed so he kisses the toe of her boot. Mumbling, this time earnestly. “Thank you serah.”

 

It smells like leather, like the wrappings on the hilt of his sword, it smells like her bowstrings, and the duster she wears when she’s out in the field. It smells like her gloved hand that he bends to give a courtly kiss to when she departs. It smells like the strap he takes to her glorious ass when the roles change as they do. He is overcome, he forgets himself. He kisses her boot again.

 

And again.

 

“Thank you serah,” he moans against her ankle. “Thank you serah, thank you.” He whines before drawing his tongue from her ankle to the top of the boot just under her knee.

 

She can’t  _ feel  _ it, not like she could if he was mouthing her flesh, but his tongue immolates her from the inside out. “Color!” She barks as though punched in the chest. This is new for him, he’s never taken such initiative, she must know that he’s alright.

 

He hesitates before whimpering a barely audible ‘blue’ also nearly consumed by raw and heavy lust, but he calms her from his knees, kissing again the toe of her boot to show his dedication.

 

This time she can’t conceal the whine, watching him, heart filled to explosion by his...by his...giving. Cullen lavishes both boots with affection, basking in the spicy scent of the polish and the animal scent of the fur that lines the inside.

 

She’s quiet, her heavy breathing the only sound she can make because oh, it is the wine and what he’s doing, how far he’s going, and she almost calls her watchword overwhelmed by this eagerness, this surrender to total trust.

 

It is almost too much.

 

Almost, though, doesn’t count.

 

“More.” She croaks.

 

He feels pride because this is how he knows he’s done well. But anything he feels he gifts to her, he relinquishes that pride with a dart of tongue drawn against the leather.

 

Her hips move in such slow circles on the chaise. Watching him like this frays her control like old and uncared for rope. “Col. Lor!” She cries, pussy clenching with need.

 

“Yellow yellow yellow please!”

 

In the drill position, his hips move, jerky and uncoordinated given that he has not her permission to. He wants some friction, desperate to feel something against his cock deciding that even the soft pile of the carpet will do. He stretches his thighs a little wider, ostensibly to lower himself further at her feet but to bring the tip of his aching hardness into contact with something.

 

She observes him with a light smile and a heavy groan, choosing the carpet specifically for that purpose, knowing he’d wouldn’t resist it. Vivienne once howled at her, thinking the Inquisitor of poor taste, stating that no one uses such fabrics outside their ‘boudoirs’. 

 

When Evelyn doesn’t laugh, fixing the Enchantress with a knowing and withering glare, Vivienne stepped back, apologizing and adding after. “If in either of you lies the inclination to share, do send your dear templar to me--or you yourself.”

 

No time to consider that conversation, Cullen shatters her reverie with a whispered plea. “Serah, may I?”

 

“May you what?” She tries to sound aggravated or at least some other emotion other than utterly devastated by lust. She fails to her ears, but not to his.

 

“May I touch you, serah, with my hands.”

 

She bends, hands reaching for him again, alighting on his head and bringing her fingers and palm down around the curve of his cheek, to his chin. She brushes her thumb across his lips, pleased to the point of rapture when his eyes slip close,as his mouth remains closed knowing she must grant the allowance for a kiss. 

 

“Of course.”

 

The bones in his back pop as he lifts from his hands to just his knees. He does not reach for her leg to remove her boot, he waits, and she waits, allowing his body the time to adjust to the new position, for the muscles to stretch and settle. He’s not been down there for nearly as long as he likes, for as long as she knows he can take it.

 

He was once her footstool for two hours as she giggled and snickered and sighed over Varric’s newest smut book. He was shaking by the end of it, but not for the strain, but because he had to listen to her bring herself to pleasure as she read.

 

Her legs stretch, long and well formed, she points her toe against his shoulder, he kisses it as he works the laces. The boots slip free, as do her stockings. He lays a tender kiss to her ankle, then her calf. They both moan from the sweetness of it, and Evelyn feels her indulgence overwhelm her again, override her better judgement. She allows him those sweet little affectations, taking them greedily.

 

“Stop.” She calls finally, he obeys, crossing his hands behind his back because he knows better. “Shame on you.”

 

He drops his head, penitent but smirking.

 

“And you’d been doing so well too. No matter. Guess I’ll just have to put this away.”

 

Her fingernails glint off the large ruby set in the crossguard of her dagger. Blade no bigger than the width of her hand it is nevertheless a deadly implement. She had Dagna wear it dull and set runes in the rubies to make it cold without compromising the steel of the blade. She oils it regularly, lovingly even, making Cullen watch her apply the oils to the shaft, much like the way she applies oils to his shaft, and  _ stroke _ .

 

Often when they play, the mere threat of the knife against his flesh is enough to have him begging.

 

And as for the application of it well…

 

She never draws blood, never even cuts the flesh, she only scrapes and scores, the ice in the blade enough to give the sensation of rent skin. The handle is jeweled in small but precious stones, it curls at the end, the design perfect for teasing the pucker of flesh between his ass. 

 

Just the threat is enough.

 

The dagger is in her hands, she contemplates it, contemplates his punishment for the liberties he stole. But rather than waste an opportunity to use it on him, she merely uses it on herself.

 

She draws the blade against her palm, exaggerating the shudder of delight she feels as the cold grazes her.

 

“I rather like this too much to put it away. Maybe I’ll just use it for me. Watch.” The last word is stern, the last word is the command. He snaps his eyes to her face and watches.

 

Her tunic goes, as does her breastband. She’s clothed in pants and even then they are unknotted and unlaced and unbuckled, the muslin tan of her small clothes peeking through.

 

Cullen grinds his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering as he yearns for the knife she pulls along her skin. Down the meridian of her body, leaving a white line scratched in her skin like a line of frost in earth. She circles her breasts, moans loud and hard when the dull tip of the blade flicks a raised nipple. She’s a bow huntress, but her hands are practiced with daggers, with expertly applied pressure, she scores a swirl around both breasts, her hips rolling back and forth as she does.

 

It is his punishment to watch.

 

His gut clenches hard at her breathless cry for her Maker, his cock has been hard for an hour now, untouched, still aching, and his fingers flex behind his back as he burns to just reach around and…

 

“Keep still.” She knows his mind, his heart, his everything. He stiffens, rights his posture, he’s on his knees but still holds himself as though he’s at attention, his eyes following her fingers as they dip below the horizon of her waist and lower still.

 

Holding the dagger by its hilt, she lets the handle rub up and down her still clothed slit, head thrown back, mouth open, chest heaving with labored breaths as she presses the ridged jewels against her soaking wet cunt.

 

It’s  _ torture _ to watch, but Maker how he loves it.

 

“Approach.” She pants. “Approach one step. Count to 30. Approach another. When you reach me, you may have me.”

 

Of course her definition of a ‘step’ would be arbitrary and cruel. One half shuffle of his knees and she’s ordering him to stop, the dagger’s handle squelching in her wetness while fingers pinch and twist at her breasts.

 

He is mad with desire, but the purpose of this punishment is control. He controls himself, even as every fiber that weaves him is pulled by the hands on her body, bringing her slowly to release.

 

Another half step and he is made to stop. She calls his name. “Don’t you wish…” she asks.

 

“Yes,” he answers, mouth dry.

 

Her legs are parted wide enough to fit through, one more step and he’s there, he can have her by her own rules, 15...16…

 

“Oh. Fuck. Fuck…”

 

She comes, crying his name as he reaches 5, the curled edge of the dagger’s handle pressed hard against the jewel of her cunt. She holds for a minute before going boneless, “Color?” She asks lazily.

 

“Yellow.” He wails.

 

“Then clean me.”

 

He does. If the blade had an edge he’d cut the pants from her, but it doesn’t so conventional methods prevail. She chuckles as he is unbothered with removing her smalls, merely pulling them aside with one hand while the other splays her, while his mouth gets to work.

 

He is eager, almost desperate to please her and he shows his exquisite desperation in the care his tongue pays to her cunt. He outlines, he draws soft lines against her labia, majora and minora. He dips and swirls and tongues, he moves his whole head, moaning with each swipe and pass.

 

Her thighs close around his head, deafening him so he can barely hear her gasping, can barely hear her command.

 

“Touch...touch yourself. Finish with me.”

 

It’s a reward unlooked for, quite possibly unearned. No one cares. 

 

He takes himself in hand, knowing it won’t take much.

 

It doesn’t.

 

For either of them.

 

He can’t hear her screams, thighs muffling the sound, but he feels it vibrate in her skin and in her bones. Feels it in the way her cunt pulses under the spear of his tongue on her pearl. Tastes it in the honey she drips for him.

 

Her body swallows up his groans has he comes, cock pulsing with the beat of his heart in his hand until he is empty. 

 

And she, Maker, she fills him full again.

 

She’s on the floor with him, her hands are all over him because he needs to be held after such things. Not likes,  _ needs _ it. Not cuddling but care. He doesn’t remember her reaching for any oil but it’s in her hands and being massaged into the knots in his lower back and shoulders and up and down his arms that bore the weight of his body when he was in his position.

 

“Tell me where?” She asks and he doesn’t answer, because there is no where he hurts, not like this.

 

Evelyn lifts him to his feet when she’s done and the bed isn’t far, it doesn’t take them long to get there. She gathers him to her in a rough clutch. He is a very strong man, tender timid holdings and casually thrown arms around chests and over stomachs will not do for him. He needs to be wrapped tight, close to constriction, assured then that the touch is real. She makes him drink water, not wine, his exertions require it and to wash the lingering leather taste out of his mouth, besides her vintage is too sweet for his tastes anyway.

 

“How do you feel?”

 

He just hums, it’s catlike, but assuredly content.

 

She kisses his temple before murmuring softly in his ears, a barely audible whisper that causes more delightful tingles to course down his spine, flare across the brow of his forehead, and curl around his heart like a caress of silk.

 

“I’m not above punishing you again for forgetting to answer when I ask. Something more severe too since this is the second time you’ve needed reminding.”

 

His answer comes at the end of another contented purr. “Yes serah, I am sorry serah, I feel very good.”

 

“That play was okay?”

 

“Maker yes. I don’t thik I’ll ever look at those boots the same way again. How you wear them and how you walk in them, the sound they make on the stone and the way they make your legs look. Made me harder than stone to see you in them--despite their impracticality for combat.”

 

“Oh?”

 

He talks, the heel is too high, fashionable yes but like to tip her off balance in the feild. The leather is new, stiff, a good quality but there are animals better suited for gear to be worn under heavy use. As he talks, he un-tenses and wiggles out of her protective grasp. The scene is over.

 

He is Cullen.

 

She is Evelyn. 

 

And their titles melt into the background, mantles to be pulled on again at later times--or exchanged for their alternates. Where he is Ser and she is his precious girl.

 

“I almost stopped,” she confesses. Now her head is under his chin as they repose for their night’s rest.

 

“Why?”

 

“It was too much, for me, what you were giving me. It was incredible. I… Maker’s fuck, how I love you.”

 

Their kiss is quick and sweet, lip to lip for the first time all evening. They’ve kissed hands and ankles and wrists and temples and throats and hearts but never lips. Those are special, of the rarest signs of affection. Her heart flutters, very nearly stops, and his smiles behind closed eyes, holding the image of her dazed dreamy face afterwards in his mind as a shield against any encroaching nightmare.

 

There are none.

 

And the next day, he finds she’s wearing Those Boots again.

 

And so too the next day.

 

And the next day.

  
And the next…. 

**Author's Note:**

> I did my damned level best to research and pay proper respect to the various kinks and relationships described therein. If I got it wrong, tell me.


End file.
